Rearing on the Horse of Your Voice

Again I am astride old wall-eyed Ida
and we are taking the mountain trail
straight down. She knows I am
afraid. And if this is not
fear itself I am riding
then all those horseback lessons
were no good at all.

I should know better than to read
your bolting words that make my own
lie like the dead horse maggoted
in our field. I should know better
but you lead me on with wings,
diamonded, dusty and distraught.

Horse sense I never had. Even my pony
mind had all the mane out-wind,
and those dreams of being equestrienne
on one toe, circussing in a shimmer
of white tulle were gone when
I began to dream of flying.